


My Angel

by jack-of-alltrades (bumblebeeJacky)



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Glassterion, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Betrayal, Depression, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Vomiting, ig, im dead serious dont read the first chapter if you're sensitive to topics such as suicide, it's super dark, the first chapter anyway, the second chapter is the happy end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24799003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblebeeJacky/pseuds/jack-of-alltrades
Summary: He didn't know why he was surprised. He shouldn't have been, right?They never remembered and Kenny never pushed, he'd accepted loneliness and disbelief years ago. Eric was the only one that ever remembered, but he was /such/ an /asshole/ and Kenny never bothered seeking reassurance from someone so touch - and love - averse.
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Commission from my friend Toni! u asked for awful angst for the first chapter and soft for the second

He didn't know why he was surprised. He shouldn't have been, right?

They wouldn't always have time for Kenny, and Kenny didn't have time to drag his feet.

He hated that it was the long route, that it’d take _time_. As if the injuries he already had weren’t enough. As if the pipe sticking out from his stomach wasn’t / _enough_./ It was below freezing. South Park was / _cold/_. No wonder he used to always wear his coat when he was young, he’d have frozen to death otherwise.

Every time he looked down, he’d have been sick if he could still feel below his waist. His own slick blood frozen to the metal, the only witnesses now being him and the moon above. No one was answering their phones, and if tears burned his cheeks under the glow, as he grew cold in more ways than one, well… The moon wouldn’t say a word, he assured himself as his eyes slipped closed.

The moon didn’t say a word when he woke up in his own bed, and surely the sun wouldn’t out him either. It shined silent as ever through his window, lit up the room as he tipped over the side of his bed, and emptied his stomach onto the already nasty carpet of his old, dilapidated home.

No one was coming. He felt / _sick_./

_/No one was coming_./

He threw up again.

It took a couple of tries to get out of bed before he managed; dragging himself out and around the puddle he’d created. It took longer than usual to get dressed as he eyed the kids’ costume in the back of his old closet for a moment before he closed the door. The costume that personified what the lonely nine-year-old had once wanted for his town.

But now wasn’t the time. He didn’t have great magical powers, he was no superhero, and he would never be. That was for / _them_ /: people with worthwhile powers, people who knew right from wrong, and who had the drive to make changes for the better. Those people who could / _truly/_ make a change, not those that ran from their problems.

He shook his head and swallowed thickly as he pulled on an old yet still fitting hoodie, stepping past his drunk, neglectful parents and out of his old home. He didn’t pay it any mind. They didn’t care now, they wouldn’t care when he stumbled home with clothes soaked in his own blood hours later. It didn’t matter.

/ _He_ / didn’t matter.

He never would. What was special about him? He can’t die, he’s a pretty boy, what did he truly have / _going_ / for him outside of that?

If you asked him, he’d laugh it off and think the most obvious word to himself as he walks away.

/ _Nothing_ /.

Nothing: He dies and comes back, he’s talented, he’s rather smart and he can be friendly. But where would that get him in the end? Six feet under with a headstone that’d do little more than collect dirt and moss for a couple of days.

He never stayed gone, and it always fucked people up to see his gravestone, to hear or see the truth. They never remembered and Kenny never pushed, he'd accepted loneliness and disbelief years ago. Eric was the only one that ever remembered, but he was / _such/_ an / _asshole/_ and Kenny never bothered seeking reassurance from someone so touch - and love - averse.

He wouldn't stop; nothing would stop him from doing what he set out to do. One by one, the villains dropped at the hands of the furious blond seeking revenge for the loss of his most precious favorite person. Their numbers slowly dwindled, and each time, Kenny dropped with them.

He wanted better, he wanted to fix things and to avenge Karen and to do right every / _wrong_ / these villains had caused. He wanted to end his own life and ask Damien or the angels or / _god_ / to trade his life for hers, to bring the angelic girl back to the land of the living and take Kenny away in turn.

If anything, it'd be a relief for them both.

But that was too easy, that'd give everyone welcomed / _relief_ / at the lack of Kenneth J. McCormick, the chaotic yet shy boy who would do / _almost_ / anything for a quick buck. Eric had been shocked the few times Kenny actually turned his bets down but the blond has his limits, his own moral compass.

All this: all his fears and insecurities, folks he used to call friends, parents that don't care, and a sister that was never coming back; all for Kenny to have nothing to show.

All for him to flail as he was slammed into the wall, to cry out in pain as a knife gets lodged into his sternum, as those remaining villains tear into him for his transgressions against their group.

For taking two out and loudly announcing, “/ _I’m_ / Mysterion!”

He would pay.

For every last thing he'd ever done against them, against his friends, his heroes, his family; he would _pay_.

How many times did he find himself back there?

How many times did he try, try, try, and find himself hanging off a pole, decapitated, electrocuted, shot, stabbed, exsanguination… Of all the many deaths, both related to the villains and / _not_ /, he had to say his favorite would be / _hanging_ /. Because as slow as it was… It was / _his choice_ /.

Maybe he liked it, that temporary relief from his own suffering. Card games with Damien or long talks with Pip. Some days he was so eager to go home, to wake up in his bed and get on with it because it felt like an utter / _betrayal_ / to Karen’s memory to take the easy way out oh so often. For him to give up time and time again because something was pressing heavily on his chest, drawing out the breath from his lungs, and most days, he didn’t even fight it.

She’d be so ashamed. Every time he thought it over, he came to that conclusion. If Karen McCormick saw what her big brother, her / _hero_ / had become since she passed, she’d be so ashamed, so / _disappointed_ /.

He knew, because he was disappointed in himself too.

She was disappointed in him. Kevin, wherever he was at the moment, had to be disappointed in him. His own / _friends_ / were disappointed in him. Kenneth came / _so far_ /, fought / _so hard_ /, only to crash and burn right before the finish line with no one else at his side to drag him back up to his feet, no one to tell him to just keep / _moving_ /.

So many in his hometown had just given up on him, giving him those pitying looks when he’s out and about during the day. No wonder he started going more nocturnal, sleeping days away and only getting up at night. He knew Kevin hated three AM texts or calls, but… He loves his brother enough to not yell at him. Not anymore, anyway.

But who was Kenny supposed to truly turn to when he was all alone, when feelings were strangling him and he needed that reassurance, the promises that it’d all be okay?

He thought he could turn to Tweek and Eric. The two had seemed so sweet to him when he first went home. Eric seemed understanding, promising he didn’t hold his best friend’s disappearance against him, and Tweek even offered him a job to help him get back on his feet so he wasn’t back to where he started, living in poverty under threats of starvation and frostbite and whatever asshole would swing by his childhood home to do deals with his parents or to / _blow off steam_ /. Usually with a weapon in hand and a defenseless teenager wearing underwear over his clothes attempting to defend his family.

He did try to turn to them, no one can say Ken didn’t / _try_ /. He did his best, but sometimes his best just… Wasn’t good enough.

The taunting words in his ear as his shaking hand held the gun to his own head was a testament to that.

He trusted the wrong people.

Kenny always made these mistakes. He always tried and he always / _failed_ /. He was so much more… Successful, when he was a child; when he just didn’t / _care_ / whether he lived or died, or whatever happened to those around him. It was so hard to care when those he told himself he / _loved_ / over and over consistently pushed him into danger and offered / _him_ / up for the slaughter only so their own necks wouldn’t be on the line.

He was sick of it.

He was so, so sick of it, but it was hard to find the will to stand up, fight and defend himself when he looked into cold eyes, goading him into pulling the trigger so they wouldn’t have to / _look_ / at him.

Blinking back tears, he pulled the trigger, dropping back into the darkness where he belongs.


	2. Chapter 2

He woke slow, too warm yet too cold altogether. Shivers wracked his body, had him curling up under the heavy blanket he was under.

_/Hang on, I don't o w n a heavy blanket…/_

His eyes fluttered open a moment later, taking a moment to adjust to the light in the room from the sun shining through the window, and the fabric his face was pressed against.

Something warm, something alive - something / _safe_ /.

He felt / _safe/._

What a rarity that was. So much so that he didn't move right away, didn’t flinch away from the warm chest he was curled up against, his arms tight around him keeping him safe.

If anything, he shifted and the arms tightened.

When he finally had it in him to look up, the movement seemed to wake the other up because suddenly there were tired green eyes blinking down at him and a hand slowly raised to drag through his hair.

Kenny hated how quickly he melted from there, face buried into Kyle’s night shirt as his own arms wrapped tighter around the redhead. Kyle let him hold onto him, carding fingers through his hair.

Kenny wasn't quite sure / _when_ / he’d fallen asleep, but he was alone in Kyle’s bedroom when he came to, feeling a little dizzy and delirious. It took him a good couple minutes to work up the strength needed to sit up, weakly stretching his arms out first before he bothered attempting to get out of the bed.

He’d fallen on his ass / _right_ / as Kyle walked back in, and damn, / _that_ / was certainly embarrassing to try and explain to one of his best friends, a tale more about how / _the blanket was tangled around my legs!_ / and less about how his limbs simply wouldn’t function correctly to safely get him out of bed, not to mention sharp pains resonating within his body that ceased any proper motions.

But soon, he had to sit with Kyle, sipping slowly on tea the other made him as he asked why. Why he’d woken up in Kyle’s room, why they were cuddling, why he was / _wearing one of Kyle’s sweaters_ /. Kyle explained carefully for him, letting Kenny hold onto his hand. “You were in the snow,” he’d told him, “I found you, passed out and / _bleeding_ / in the snow. I- I think you got shot?” Kenny’s breath caught in his throat, and he relented when Kyle stopped his scrambling motions to slowly pull down the neck of the too-large sweater himself to show Kenny bandages wrapped tightly around his left shoulder, stained pink around the middle. “Shit, I have to change them, hang on,” Kyle uttered, getting up to rush to the bathroom for the first aid kit.

That left Kenny alone, shaking and nauseous. Kyle was gone barely half a minute, but he rushed back out for a large mixing bowl when he saw how green in the gills his friend had gone.

Kenny ended up throwing up into the bowl and when his stomach finally fully emptied itself, he sat almost boneless on the bed, only flinching from the pain a little as Kyle ever so carefully changed the bandages and cleaned him up.

What felt like hours passed after it was said and done, leaving Kenny sick and pained in Kyle’s bed while the redhead left for work.

When he heard his own phone going off beside the washed and dried parka on Kyle’s dresser, anxiety twisting in his gut had him pulling the blanket over his head in an attempt to hide from his inevitable fate.

He felt like he was drowning, violent waves holding him under as he choked and gasped and pleaded for air that just wouldn’t come and give him some kind of reprieve from his inevitable end.

He didn’t move from the bed the entire day, ignoring his phone ringing over and over and / _over_ /. They were relentless, and each time it rang, he attempted to hide further under the mount of blankets, scared and nauseous. He almost screamed, almost / _threw up_ / when Kyle shook his shoulder later in the day. Kenny hadn’t even heard him come home or enter his room. The redhead didn’t make him leave his little nest of blankets, however. Kenny could feel him sitting on the bed, he could feel his hand resting on Kenny’s back over the blanket, but Kyle didn’t make him take off the blanket, or talk, or anything of the sort.

He just… Let Kenny exist where he was without complaint or demands of something otherwise. Kyle was… Sometimes, Kenny forgot, Kyle was the definition of the word / _angel_ /.

This is why he was one of Kenny’s best friends.

Because he understood, because he was always… Something of a / _mother_ / to Kenny.

It made him smile despite the tears, just thinking about it. Kyle always cared about him; even when they were tiny, stupid kids. When Kenny fell and hurt himself, when he needed someone to hold his hand and help up when he fell and somewhere to stay when his parents were screaming their heads off and even / _he_ / couldn’t deal with it. It was always Kyle.

Eventually, he got out of bed after taking some medicine, and he couldn’t even pretend to be surprised to find Stan and Leo sat on Kyle’s couch, watching movies. These were truly his best friends. Who needed Eric and Tweek, their poisonous words and foul actions?

He missed his best friend Eric, he’d miss his job at Tweek Bros, but he missed so many things so much / _less_ / once he was happily resting on the couch with him, his lanky body draped over Kyle, Stan and Leopold’s laps, melting as the fellow blond ran gentle fingers through his long hair and even braided parts of it. It was the most relaxed he’d felt in a while.

When a knock sounded from the door, Kenny startled them with how quickly he was on his feet, hidden behind the couch.

It was quite the sight to behold.

Due to where he came from, it seemed Kyle still recognized those reactions from Kenneth. The looks of fear, the unease, the need to / _hide_ / when things were too much. Kyle saw it in him due to his parents, to the drug addicts and dealers that hung around Kenny’s home - hell, he saw it in Kenny due to the blond’s own friends.

/ _(Kyle hasn’t raised his voice at or around Kenny in years, and he has no intention of starting now.)_ /

With that in mind, perhaps that’s why when Kyle saw a certain blond and brunet at the door, the door was slammed shut in their faces. The redhead advised Stan and Leo to just ignore them, a hissed and clearly bitter, “They aren’t welcome in my / _fucking_ / home, especially not with Ken here,” as he helped the tall blond back to his feet.

It looked a little silly and had Leo and Stan cracking smiles to see Kenny, a whole head taller, wrapping himself around Kyle. Arms tight around his chest, bent down to bury his face in Kyle’s neck. Kyle, for his part, let it be, sitting down on the couch and simply snorting softly when Kenny sat himself right in his lap, legs draped over Stan’s lap as he held onto his ‘parents’.

Of course, a moment later, the unlocked door still opened to a pissed Tweek and Eric, glaring at them as they questioned the scene before the, called Kenny out on / _clearly_ / ignoring them all day.

Stan was the one to stand up and force them out with a scowl, “He’s / _sick_ /, you assholes! If you cared about him at all, you’d know this shit!”

Kenny was dragged back to Kyle’s room from there, tucked in under thick blankets by his ‘mom’, breathing a little laugh as Kyle did little things like fluffing Kenny’s pillow, making sure he was tucked in tightly, making sure he felt / _safe_ /. He could never truly say how much it meant to him, but he was sure Kyle understood when Kenny freed one hand simply to hold onto Kyle’s.

“Get some rest, Ken,” he uttered, listening to the shouts and obvious arguments between Stan and Leo, Tweek and Eric. At Kenny’s tiny frown when Stan grew particularly loud, Kyle pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, squeezed his hand / _tight_ /. “It’ll be okay,” Kyle promised him, voice so soft, hands so gentle.

Always so gentle and sweet with Kenny.

Leo and Stan stepped into his room a moment later, silencing the two of them. “I’m awful sorry if we got too loud, Ken,” Leo apologized, sitting on the edge of his bed to offer a smile that was so quickly returned. Stan joined him, taking Kenny’s other hand and with a weak smile, he whispered, “They won’t bother you anymore, Ken, we’ll make sure of that.”

God, he’d forgotten what it felt like, to be / _safe_ /.

Now he remembers.


End file.
